


A Lesson Each Mile

by Ultirex



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Bodyswap, Crack Treated Seriously, M/M, Post-Canon, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, minor Cyclonus/Whirl/Tailgate, minor Rodimus/Thunderclash, minor Simpatico
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2020-11-28 00:43:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20957630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ultirex/pseuds/Ultirex
Summary: Drift has always wished that Rodimus could see Ratchet from his perspective, and a lab accident provides him with a golden opportunity to see his desires realized.Rodimus, on the other hand, isn’t prepared to be a married man.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For Charlotte, who enables this crap.
> 
> Spoilers for _Lost Light_.

“I had considered a couple different outcomes to this,” Brainstorm muses, giving his chin an appropriately thoughtful rub as he observes the conundrum that has presented itself before him. “But this wasn’t exactly one of them.”

Rodimus is too preoccupied with checking himself - or rather, Drift - out in the mirror to express the same sort of panic that seems to be radiating from his estranged body. 

Only natural, given that its newfound occupant is much more inclined to worry about consequences than its former inhabitant.

“You can fix this, right?” Drift asks, and there’s a palpable increase in his anxiety when his words come out in a voice that’s not his own.

“Of course I can!” Brainstorm replies with all the offense of a self-proclaimed “ship’s genius” scorned. “The only question is how long it’ll take.”

He looks forlornly to the smoldering terminal of his beloved contraption that caused this mishap. An experiment with teleportation, one inspired by the quantum engines, gone spectacularly awry in ways only Brainstorm could manage. 

And then he turns to his two (reluctant) test subjects, who are left trying to cope with the aftermath in their own unique ways. 

“I’ll need some time to salvage the teleporter,” Brainstorm says, “but even then I can’t guarantee that running through it again will reverse this. And if that’s the case then we’ll just have to start from scratch and do some more experimenting.”

His optics light up at the prospect. Drift is far less thrilled by the idea of rigorous trial and error with no guarantee of success - or that he won’t be worse off than he is right now.

“Can’t you get Perceptor to help?” Drift practically pleads, but his hopes are quickly dashed.

“Perceptor can’t know about this,” Brainstorm says with an air of finality, one that leaves no room for the protestations that Drift has already formulated. “I’m one - one! Hijink away from losing my lab partner privileges. And I’d say that this qualifies as a hijink and a half.”

Rodimus still hasn’t pried his gaze from the mirror. “So you want us to just act like everything is normal?”

“Precisely. That way we won’t have a panicking crew or a disappointed Percy to deal with,” Brainstorm says. He pauses in his tinkering with the console to observe the way Rodimus is running his hands along his - or rather Drift’s - waist. “And I’d suggest you start by not feeling yourself up like that.”

“Me up, you mean,” Drift mutters, and after a quick run through the five stages of grief his anxiety has given way to a grim acceptance of their absurd predicament. “Come on, Rodimus, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

Rodimus is undeterred as he gropes Drift’s generous thighs. “Yeah, but there’s a difference between being in you and being _in_ you, you know?”

“Ok,” Brainstorm says. Most of his face is obscured by his mask but the hue of his optics alone is enough to convey that he’s reached the limits of even his tolerance. “Spare me the details. Get out of here and try not to make a scene about this. And whatever you do-“

“Don’t tell Perceptor,” Rodimus finishes. “Have some faith, Brainstorm.”

He walks out with a hand planted on Drift’s aft. Drift trudges along behind him as if he’s attending a funeral for his own dignity.

Brainstorm looks to the drawer that still holds the blueprints for his briefcase before resigning himself to a few sleepless nights and an inevitable lecture for the ages. 

**______________________________**

Drift has a grand total of two friends. 

Not that he’s ever been one to complain about what is an admittedly sad truth. If anything, he considers it a blessing (perhaps from Primus, though his belief in the benevolence of such a deity is not as unshakeable as his more performative piety would lead others to believe) that after the life he’s lived he can at least rely on Rodimus and Ratchet to do more than simply tolerate him. 

Rodimus even seems to genuinely enjoy his presence in a manner that has extended beyond the bygone days of supply closet trysts and words of validation, while Ratchet...well. Ratchet is Ratchet and has his own ways of expressing his affection for others, dissonant as they often are with what many perceive as social norms, and he only makes an exception for his conjunx in those moments of quiet intimacy where they’re safe from any prying eyes. 

Which leads Drift to his grievance with his self-made triad of sorts. Whereas Rodimus expresses emotions as explosively and vibrantly as the flame motif that he prides himself on, Ratchet is all tight, downturned lips and a wit so dry it often comes across as scathing criticism rather than an attempt at humor to those not attuned to Ratchet’s mannerisms. 

Simply put, Drift constantly finds himself somewhere at the crossroads of what feels like two extremes. And, much to his dismay, the old adage “opposites attract” does not appear to hold water when it comes to Rodimus and Ratchet. 

(He’d once expressed such a concern to Perceptor, hoping that something of a past together would qualify him for a little level-headed advice among the rabble. Instead, he’d received a very heated and animated lecture from Brainstorm about how many chemical and biological processes lend themselves to the inverse of such a claim, and Drift had left the lab with a fuddled metaphor about polarity and no greater sense of clarity.)

In one of his more optimistic moments Drift had decided to act on the knowledge that direct intervention would be necessary, should he want to see the fantasy he’d cultivated of them come to fruition. Truly an outlandish thought, that Ratchet would not only put up with Rodimus’ antics but also be as endeared to them as Drift was, that Rodimus would come to appreciate Ratchet beyond his abrasive exterior, but Drift had learned that there was value in ambition. 

It was the logical course of action. Starting with Rodimus, however, had quickly proved to be an exercise in futility. 

“What about Ratchet?” Rodimus asked. He scratched at his nose and didn’t bother looking up from the datapad he was reading; one which Drift had his doubts was related to any sort of captainly-business. 

Drift turned on his side and propped his head up on a hand. He gave Rodimus a sweeping glance, appreciating the way he managed to pull off a sprawl with a lazy sort of grace.

“What do you think of him? Honestly,” Drift pressed, and there must have been a note of urgency to his request that managed to rouse Rodimus from his reading. 

“Uh...” Rodimus laid the datapad down on his chest and gave his optics a good, pensive rub. “I dunno. I’ve never really sat down and like, thought about it? He’s a doctor. A pretty damn good one at that, too. Never hurts to have someone who can put together a fresh pair of arms for you in a pinch, you know?”

He drummed his fingers against his abdomen, testing the very appendages that Ratchet had made in the wake of the sparkeater incident - though Ratchet had also been quick to point out that it was Rodimus’ own recklessness and callous decision making that had necessitated the replacement in the first place. 

“So you respect him,” Drift said, taken aback by the way that Rodimus seemed to speak of their resident CMO in a way that implied admiration. 

“I mean, you’d have to be blind to not know he’s good at what he does. And if you were he’d just patch you up to prove it.” Rodimus gave a noncommittal shrug. “But sure, we can go with that.”

Drift reached out to a lay a hand on the datapad when it appeared that Rodimus’ interest in the topic at hand had gone stale. Rodimus only looked slightly annoyed as Drift said, “Ok. You acknowledge that he’s a professional. But how do you feel about Ratchet? As a person, I mean.”

Rodimus’ lip jutted into the beginnings of a pout. Clearly this was a topic he’d rather avoid. “Does it matter?”

“It does to me,” Drift said, and he plucked the datapad out of Rodimus’ hand to prevent it from being a possible avenue of escape. 

“Huh,” Rodimus said in lieu of a proper response. But he did direct his gaze up towards the ceiling of his bedroom, looking as if he were searching for some focal point upon which he could center himself and his thoughts.

His fingers played with the sheets around him as he said, “I think he doesn’t like me all that much, when you get down to it. He’s the exact sort of person that hates my brand, or whatever you want to call it.”

It was a surprisingly sincere answer, given Rodimus’ aversion to the topic. Drift reached over and disentangled Rodimus’ fingers from the covers, replacing them with his own hand and giving a reassuring squeeze. 

“He can take some time to warm up to people,” Drift conceded with no shortage of personal experience backing that assertion. “And he’s not exactly the most outwardly affectionate person - really, I think arguing with people is how he shows he cares, in his own special way. But I wouldn’t say that he _hates_ you, or anything.”

Rodimus turned his head and regarded Drift with a skeptical look. “I didn’t say anything about hate but, thanks. I’m glad the bar is that low.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Drift said. He nudged Rodimus with his foot in the closest approximation to an admonishment that he could manage with Rodimus. “I just think that you tend to exaggerate things sometimes. Besides, would Ratchet be here if he really didn’t like you? Here, on _your_ quest?”

Rodimus’ laugh was humorless. “I’m not stupid, Drift. I know a good deal of our crew thinks I’m a fuck up. But they’re here anyways because they’ve either got their own agendas or nothing better to do. It’s not like Cybertron is much of a home anymore.”

He was right, of course. Even Drift, in all his rose-tinted lenses glory, couldn’t deny the fact that their Captain was rarely regarded with a level of respect that might be inferred by his title. 

Still, he was reluctant to admit such a thing. “That doesn’t mean that Ratchet is one of them.”

“Oh come off it, Drift,” Rodimus said sardonically. “Ratchet’s stubborn, grumpy, and stuck in his ways. _That’s_ what I think of him, and that’s not gonna change.”

“Have you _tried_ giving him a chance?” Drift asked, knowing that he could no longer hide his mounting frustration. “You might change your mind and get along with him if you put in the effort.”

Rodimus grabbed back the datapad, signaling the end of the conversation; but not before he got the last word in. 

“Ratchet came on this quest to die, not be my friend. Playing nice with him won’t change that.”

**______________________________**

“We need to discuss how we’re going to go about this,” Drift says, quickly pulling Rodimus aside as soon as they leave the lab. 

He doesn’t quite trust Rodimus to not immediately begin having some questionable fun with his new identity, and Drift’s concern proves to be justified when Rodimus attempts to slip from his grip.

“You’re overthinking it,” Rodimus says dismissively. “How hard can it be to play each other?”

Drift observes the way that Rodimus stands with a hand on his cocked hip, his posture far more relaxed than dignified. “I don’t have very much faith.”

Rodimus scratches his nose. It’s something of a nervous tick that Drift had noticed Rodimus pick up a while ago, but had never done so himself.

“Ouch,” Rodimus says. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. Even after all the time we’ve spent together you really don’t think I can pull it off, huh?”

It’s always been somewhat of a challenge to tell when Rodimus is genuinely offended and when he’s putting on a show of being hurt just to be an ass. Drift leans towards the latter but acknowledges that perhaps his understanding of Rodimus is more lacking than he once thought. 

“You’ll have to be Ratchet’s conjunx,” Drift says slowly, and it’s only then that the true gravity of the situation strikes Rodimus.

“Uh.” 

Drift nods solemnly.

Rodimus is suddenly in the thick of his own crisis. “You can’t be serious.”

Another nod that feels more like a condemnation.

“I’ll just stay with you in my quarters,” Rodimus says, and even as he tries to play it off nonchalantly there’s an unmistakable edge of desperation in his voice. 

“And let everyone think that we’re…” Drift’s voice lowers as he leans in. “You know. ‘Facing again? We can’t, Rodimus.”

“It’s platonic bed sharing!” Rodimus hisses, close enough that his forehead touches Drift’s. “No one will think anything of it.”

Before Drift can inform Rodimus that yes, their gossip hungry crew would, in fact, create some dramatic narrative about infidelity if Drift was seen slipping out of Rodimus’ quarters in the early hours of the morning, they’re interrupted by a wolf whistle. 

“Old flames die hard, huh,” Whirl says. He’s leaning against the doorframe of what had been converted into a workshop for him, and if he had a proper face he would surely be wearing a shit-eating grin in that moment. 

“Piss off, Whirl,” Rodimus snaps. “It’s not like that.”

Whirl takes a moment to process the words that just came out of Drift’s mouth. His single optic blinks slowly, and cognitive gears clink and turn to produce the memory of an unfortunate collision between him and Drift’s fist. 

Yet Whirl, a master of spitting in the face of self-preservation, doesn’t back down. 

“Always knew you were a feisty one,” he says. “Guess there had to be a reason why Rodimus likes you so much. Besides the obvious.”

Drift glowers. Whirl is unfazed. 

“Your secret’s safe with me,” he says, raising a claw in a poor imitation of a hush before leaving to go annoy or terrorize his next victim. 

Drift watches him go with a sickening feeling of dread. 

“And that’s exactly why we can’t afford to do anything out of the ordinary,” Drift says. “Especially share a room. Primus knows Whirl doesn’t need any further incentive to start some indecent rumor about us.”

Rodimus scoffs. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’s gonna have to sleep with his best friend’s conjunx.”


	2. Chapter 2

“You’re too stiff,” Rodimus admonishes, giving Drift a poke in the small of his back that makes him jolt rather than relax.

“I don’t know how you can be so calm about this whole thing,” Drift whispers, and only after casting a paranoid glance down both ends of the corridor. “This whole thing is just absurd.”

Rodimus’ leisurely pace doesn’t falter. He almost looks _too_ relaxed in Drift’s frame, with the way he’s sauntering around as if he owns the place.

Though Drift supposes he _is_ the one who bought the ship, but it isn’t the time to dwell over such semantics. 

“Yeah, and?” is Rodimus’s flippant reply. He’s tempted to leave the matter there but Drift’s exasperation is like a palpable presence that Rodimus can’t bring himself to ignore, so he elaborates. “Look, we’ve been through a lot of ridiculous stuff on this quest. This is hardly the strangest thing that’s ever happened on this ship. Especially when Brainstorm of all people is involved.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Drift murmurs, and it’s a heavier blow than any that Rodimus had sustained in even their most climactic battle.

Rodimus pauses outside the door to his office, his finger poised over the keypad. 

“Yeah,” he says, his back remaining towards Drift. “I guess you wouldn’t.”

They’re silent as Rodimus keys in the code. The whisper of the door sliding open is deafeningly loud in the stagnant air of the hallway.

Drift hesitates to enter, and only does so after casting another precautionary glance at their surroundings.

“Oh my god, it’s your office,” Rodimus says as he grabs Drift by the spoiler - _his_ spoiler, and the thought of being handled by it like so has his spine crawling - and drags him inside. Drift lets out an undignified squawk in response that has Rodimus begrudging the fact that his vocalizer is even capable of such an offense. “You’re only going to look suspicious if you do that.”

“We can’t be too careful, ok?” Drift gives the abused part of his spoiler a rub while offering Rodimus a pointed look. “You know how much this crew loves to pry.”

Rodimus sits himself down in his chair and gives it a swivel for good measure. It feels smaller than he remembers, though he supposes he has Drift’s hips to blame for that. 

“We’re having a meeting in my office! There’s nothing interesting about it, even to a bunch of gossip hungry savages,” Rodimus insists, but Drift isn’t swayed. 

“I’m not a part of command anymore, remember?” Drift says. He seats himself on the opposite side of Rodimus’ desk, and it’s difficult not to recall the last conversation they’d had in here. “And even when I was, everyone knew our ‘meetings’ were less than professional.”

“Yeah.” Rodimus runs a hand fondly over his desk, which is marred with all manners of doodles and glyphs. “The things we did on this desk. Remember when Magnus-“

Drift can’t help but crack a smile as he recalls the incident that left their Second traumatized. “I think we taught him a thing or two that day. Things he probably never even wanted to know.”

Rodimus is remorseless as he props his feet up on the desk. “Meh. Someday he’ll thank us for it.”

Drift chooses not to think about Ultra Magnus being involved in any sort of sexual deviancy. “But that’s my point. We have a history and people know about it.”

“I mean…” Rodimus trails off for a moment. His gaze fixes on the ceiling, admiring the new coat of pink paint that had been applied. “It’s in the past. All of that is in the past. People can think what they want but that’s all there is to it.”

“I guess,” Drift accepts with a sigh, and he wonders why the thought of being subjected to the scrutiny of the rumor mill even bothers him still when his days on the _Lost Light_ have always been characterized by judgment. 

“You ever miss it?” Rodimus asks suddenly, to which Drift just looks to him for clarification. “Y’know. ‘Facing like we did.”

Drift’s face feels warm, and he knows he can’t blame it entirely on the fact that Rodimus’ frame runs hot. “I really can’t have this conversation with you when I’m looking at - well, me. It’s weird.”

Rodimus, having conjured up multiple scenarios involving himself in the past, can’t quite sympathize. But he decides to be merciful and drop the subject.

“So what’s the plan, then? Do we even have one? I mean apart from the obvious. Like ‘don’t tell Perceptor’ and ‘don’t bang Ratchet.’”

“That’s a good start,” Drift says, and his mind lingers on the image of Rodimus and Ratchet caught up in a heated moment of carnality more than he would care to admit. “Other than that I think the best thing to do would be to not draw any attention to ourselves.”

He considers the body he’s currently inhabiting and accepts the fact that doing so will certainly be an uphill battle.

“You’re asking a lot of me,” Rodimus says, to state the obvious. 

Drift regards him with a chagrined smile. “Well, it’s not like I’m the most popular person here. I think you’ll find it a lot easier than you’re expecting.”

**______________________________**

Their meeting is cut short when Rodimus receives a rather curt message from Megatron, reminding him of Drift’s scheduled bridge duty. 

Rodimus is tempted to fake illness or play dead, as he is wont to do when faced with undesirable tasks, but Drift is quick to remind him that that would contradict Drift’s own work ethic. So it’s with a heavy heart that Rodimus makes his way to the command deck and braces himself for a few hours of impersonating Drift in front of one of the only people who would recognize if anything was amiss. 

Perfect scheduling on Minimus’ part.

“You’re late,” is Megatron’s idea of a greeting.

“I was busy,” is the most tepid response that Rodimus can come up with, because even with the newfound respect that they share Rodimus can’t let go of the sneaking suspicion that whatever stick Megatron has prided on having up his ass has yet to become a thing of the past. 

He’s expecting a lecture. Primus knows he’s been on the receiving end of what he saw as more than his fair share, thank you. But Megatron doesn’t chide him for his lack of professionalism or his flippant attitude when it comes to responsibility, instead raising a curious brow that has Rodimus remembering he’s not the company Megatron has anticipated keeping.

“So not even the Autobots could tame that insubordination of yours,” Megatron remarks, but whereas he’s always regarded Rodimus’ similar behavior with disdain, he actually has the audacity to sound amused. “Hm. I have to admit that you wouldn’t be quite the same without it.”

“Uh…” Rodimus scratches the bridge of his nose. He’s grateful that the crew hasn’t yet deemed their conversation interesting enough to pry them away from their stations. “Yeah. Well. You know me.”

He hopes that a vague enough answer will suffice. But Megatron has apparently grown more sociable during his time apart from the crew, and has acquired an annoying taste for idle chatter whereas previously he’d be content to let things simmer in a tense silence.

“Sometimes I wonder if I really do,” Megatron admits, and there’s something melancholy in the way he looks at who he assumes to be Drift. “I wouldn’t necessarily say that’s a bad thing, mind you. I’ve seen you at some of your lowest moments. As you have undoubtedly seen me at mine. Yet I would like to believe that we are more than our mistakes.”

It’s oddly sentimental. Rodimus says as such.

And Megatron laughs, a sound that Rodimus finds himself considering a privilege to hear - and his own unexpected sentimentality makes him want to gag, in one of his more childish moments.

Megatron doesn’t seem to notice his inner turmoil. He looks younger, if only for a moment, and it reminds Rodimus of a phone call from the distant past. 

“We’ve both changed, you and I,” Megatron says. “I’m glad it was for the better this time.”

**______________________________**

Drift doesn’t know whether he should be appalled or impressed by the amount of work that Rodimus has managed to accumulate. 

Minimus is watching him in his irreducible form, and yet Drift can still feel the former-Enforcer looming over him with a suffocating air of disapproval.

“We’ve had enough of a ‘celebratory grace period,’” Minimus says, and he practically shudders at the concept of taking time off after saving the world, of all things. “It’s time to get caught up on those reports you’ve been neglecting.”

Reports which just so happen to extend as far back as the mutiny, leaving Drift with proverbial mountains of paperwork pertaining to incidents he has no knowledge of outside of the occasional anecdote from Rodimus. 

“Do you plan on watching me the entire time?” Drift asks, and he would have felt silly doing so if it were anyone less diligent than someone who seems to thrive off of tedium. 

Minimus doesn’t immediately respond. Drift takes that as a bad omen. 

But contrary to what Drift is anticipating, Minimus yields to the more charitable part of himself and says, “No. I would like to trust that you can handle your duties without supervision.”

Drift feels touched on Rodimus’ behalf, but the afterglow of Minimus’ faith doesn’t last long when the reality of what he’s been tasked with sinks in shortly after Minimus’ departure. 

He’s somewhere between wondering how much Minimus’ approval would actually mean to Rodimus and contemplating how forgiving Perceptor would be of a hijink too many when there’s a knock on the door.

Drift steels himself. Obviously it’s too polite of an entry for it to be Rodimus, but the thought of a distraction overcomes any trepidation he might feel at having to play the part. 

First Aid’s shoulders look to be carrying the weight of the world as he trudges in, skipping any pleasantries in favor of asking, “Are you still doing relationship counseling?”

It’s unexpected, to say the least. Drift recalls Rodimus’ very brief (and unsuccessful) stint with playing the part of mediator, and is tempted to say no for both of their sakes. 

But he considers the weariness that has practically consumed the once eager recruit they’d picked up on their ill-fated trip to Delphi, and the fact that he himself is one of the few conjunxed individuals on this ship they call home, and gestures to the seat opposite him with a smile.

First Aid perks up, if only a little. “Not here. I’m gonna need a drink first.”

**______________________________**

They’re into the night cycle by the time Rodimus is relieved of duty. 

He departs the command deck feeling drained from the effort alone of putting on a front of normalcy. Conversing with Megatron had felt like an exercise akin to navigating a minefield, with the combined threat of Megatron’s powers of perception and his history with Drift lurking beneath each interaction.

Rodimus considers celebrating his deception with a drink, and the music he can hear coming from Swerve’s is as enticing as the prospect of drinking away any worries he might have about this odd predicament he finds himself in.

The sight of Whirl and Cyclonus making their way to the bar has Rodimus stopping in his tracks. There’s something eerie about the way that Whirl turns around, almost as if on cue, to wink - blink? - at him, before dragging Cyclonus off towards the festivities. 

Rodimus quietly mourns the thought of alcohol-induced bliss before heading in the opposite direction.

He checks his chrono. Ratchet will likely still be in the medbay doing Primus knows what, given that their more recent travels have yet to place them in any sort of peril. But he decides not to mull over Ratchet’s work habits in favor of seeing them as an opportunity to slip into recharge before he’s put in the position of playing a dutiful spouse. 

**______________________________**

“It’s Ratchet,” First Aid says after downing a shot of Swerve’s heavy duty high grade. 

Before Drift can even respond or process what he’s gotten himself into, First Aid is already flagging down Swerve for another drink.

Drift can do nothing more than resign himself to the fact that it’s going to be a long night. 

**______________________________**

When Rodimus opens the door to Drift and Ratchet’s hab he’s immediately struck by how oddly domestic it all feels. 

The biggest offender is the large berth, which had been specially fashioned in order to accommodate both of them. Tailgate had quickly made a similar demand afterwards, and though Cyclonus hasn’t made nearly as much of a fuss over the whole ordeal, Rodimus knew he was quietly pleased by the addition to their own quarters. 

The insulation covers are neatly tucked and the pillows nestled against the headboard; Drift’s doing, no doubt, because Rodimus seriously doubts that Ratchet would go through the trouble of making the berth.

He considers the fact that he was just analyzing Drift and Ratchet’s morning ritual and chooses to blame it on the influence of Drift’s body. 

Rodimus notices a framed photo sitting on one of the nightstands: a memento from Drift and Ratchet’s bonding ceremony, showcasing the newly unified couple. Rodimus sits down on the berth to examine it and his chest grows tight at the image of Drift, in what is perhaps the most genuinely happy moment of his life, planting an unabashedly affectionate kiss on Ratchet’s cheek. 

And Ratchet, spitting in the face of everything that Rodimus has come to assume about him, is smiling.

It stirs up something in Rodimus that he’d prefer not to dwell on, finding the evasiveness of recharge to be a preferable option. He tosses aside the covers and tries to settle in for a night of avoiding intimate contact, but the empty space next to him is just an uncomfortable reminder of that fact that he’s an intruder in this space.

It’s some time later that he hears Ratchet’s labored footsteps. There’s a moment of pause, during which Rodimus’ breath catches, but then he hears the rustle of the covers and the berth sinks beneath Ratchet’s added weight.

Rodimus wills his optics to remain closed. The warmth of Ratchet’s frame is the only warning he’s given before a kiss is placed on his own cheek, and in the aftermath he doesn’t even register that the sheets are being carefully tucked around him before the room goes still.


	3. Chapter 3

First Aid is already downing another shot with all the gusto of the late Trailcutter before Drift can bring himself to ask for an explanation. 

He eyes Swerve and considers asking for a little liquid courage himself, but the bartender is currently tending to what is clearly an intoxicated Anode. 

Drift briefly makes eye contact with Lug, entertains the thought of spiritually swapping places with her, before accepting that this is the burden he’ll have to bear as the ‘captain.’ 

“What about Ratchet?” Drift asks. He attempts to play it casual, but only succeeds in banging his knee against the underside of the table in the process of crossing his legs. 

First Aid, luckily, is unfazed by his poor attempt at replicating Rodimus’ demeanor. “He needs to stop being so stubborn and accept that his time has come.”

Drift’s fuel runs cold. “I-is he sick?”

“What? Primus, no,” First Aid says, and Drift isn’t sure whether to be relieved or annoyed by First Aid’s provocative wording. “Surprisingly. He’s going to work himself into an early grave and even then he’ll refuse to give up his title.”

Someone slides another drink First Aid’s way. First Aid doesn’t even bother to see who his benefactor is - Whirl, oddly enough, and Drift is already trying to puzzle out what sort of motive could be behind the gesture - before he takes a hearty gulp from it.

“I thought he made you the new CMO,” Drift says, but he isn’t naive enough to think that Ratchet is practicing what he preaches and has actually stepped down in any meaningful way. Ratchet’s late nights in the medbay and the empty berth that Drift has grown used to falling asleep in over the past week are evidence enough. 

“So did I,” First Aid mutters. He swirls his drink in a manner that’s borderline violent. “But what’s the point if he won’t actually let me take charge? He still struts around like he owns the place.”

Drift has a difficult time imaging Ratchet doing any sort of strutting. His normal gait is too far on the side of plodding for him to move with that sort of swagger and grace, but Drift finds it endearing as is. 

“I can’t believe that even after all this time he still doesn’t trust me with the responsibility,” First Aid says cynically. The ice in his glass clinks harshly against the edges as he fiddles with his straw. “Is it my skill? Does he really doubt my skill, even though I’m just as capable a medic as he is? Or is it my - my compulsions because let me tell you, I’ve spoken to Ultra Magnus about Cybertronian law regarding employment discrimination and-“

“He just needs time,” Drift says a little too snappishly for someone who shouldn’t be personally invested in Ratchet’s work, but at least it manages to cut First Aid off before his rant can escalate further. “You can’t expect him to just up and leave his life’s work behind overnight. It’s not fair to him.”

First Aid’s optics aren’t visible beneath his visor, but Drift can tell from the line of his lips that he’s being heavily scrutinized. “Since when did you feel so strongly about Ratchet?” he asks, and it favors the side of accusation over innocent question too much for Drift’s liking.

“Just, you know.” Drift shrugs. “Questing. It does that.” 

He’d hoped that such a non-answer would be in character, but to his dismay First Aid isn’t completely swayed.

“You’re hiding something,” First Aid says, because of course a doctor of all people would be perceptive enough to pick up on such a thing. Drift has heard enough diatribes from Ratchet about how patients have a penchant for lying. 

“I’m not,” Drift objects, but he knows his own standards for lying are far below those of someone like Rodimus, which only seems to further fuel First Aid’s suspicions.

“Are too,” is First Aid’s petulant-sounding retort, and Drift figures that the engex must finally be kicking in. 

“Ahem.”

A chorus of angels should have heralded Thunderclash’s arrival. Drift doesn’t even need to come up with an excuse when one presents itself in the form of The Greatest Autobot of All Time, who looks oddly sheepish as he stands by their booth with two drinks in hand.

“Pardon the interruption,” Thunderclash says with a polite bow of his head. “I wanted to offer you a drink.”

He extends one of the pints to Drift. “It’s a-“

“Tetrahexian Turnpike,” Drift finishes. Rodimus’ favorite, easily recognizable by its gradient of red, orange, and yellow that mimics the sunsets seen from its namesake. He accepts the drink with a smile, despite the circumstances. “Thank you, Thunderclash. That was very thoughtful.”

Thunderclash looks almost taken aback by the response, but he handles it with his usual charisma and poise. “You’re welcome. I would love to catch up with you later, if you have the time.”

He departs with a coy smile. It’s only once he’s gone to amaze the other patrons with his splendor that Drift realizes there’s something written on the napkin that Thunderclash had handed him along with the drink.

_Rodimus-_ it reads in nearly flawless penmanship that reflects the formality of the language, _I greatly enjoyed the evening we spent together. If I may indulge in more of your company, perhaps we could meet at my quarters this time?_

A heart punctuates the end of what is perhaps the most eloquent booty call that anyone has ever received. 

First Aid watches as Drift goes into a trance, one not unlike a vegetative state at this unexpected revelation. before sliding the remainder of his drink over to Drift.

“You look like you could use it more,” he says sympathetically.

**______________________________**

It’s warm when Rodimus comes to. 

Normally he wouldn’t dwell on such a fact, given his frame’s natural tendency to run a few degrees beyond the norm. But it seems like wishful thinking that his current predicament would have resolved itself overnight, and all it takes is onlining his optics to realize that he is still, for all intents and purposes, Drift. 

He squints as he waits for his vision to adjust, but it never quite settles into specs that feel familiar. He recalls Drift once telling him about the consequences of circuit board use (and abuse), and how not even a freshly forged frame can completely compensate for the damage done to certain parts of Drift’s visual cortex. 

It takes a moment for Rodimus to register that his movement is restricted on two fronts. At some point during the night he had managed to nestle his way under the covers, apparently, and had effectively swaddled himself in a cocoon of warmth and safety that could have lulled even the most paranoid mech into a sense of security. 

But the covers are second only to the weight that is draped over them, and Rodimus goes completely still as he realizes that he’s been cradled - no, _spooned_ \- against someone.

“Oh my god…”

He grimaces when he feels what is undoubtedly Ratchet shift behind him. His ventilations stall and his frame grows rigid, but it’s far too late to play it off as him still being asleep.

“Morning,” Ratchet murmurs against Rodimus’ audial. His speech is slightly slurred, still leaden with those last vestiges of recharge.

Rodimus coughs. He scrambles for a response to what is a completely innocuous greeting but his thoughts are frustratingly sluggish, leaving him with no faculties beyond those that are focusing on the feeling of Ratchet’s sturdy frame against his back. 

Ratchet adjusts his hold. “Something’s wrong,” he says, and Rodimus contemplates how likely he is to get away with playing dead as someone other than himself. 

“I’m fine,” Rodimus manages to say, but he’d be naive to think that someone as tenacious as Ratchet would back down with such a half-hearted assurance. 

“You’re on my side,” Ratchet says. The hand that isn’t currently curled around Rodimus’ abdomen begins to rub soothing circles between Rodimus’ shoulders. “Any particular reason?”

There’s something about Ratchet’s touch that has Rodimus wanting to melt into his grip, but he can’t pry his mind away from the fact that his aft is pressed against Ratchet’s panel long enough to fully appreciate it.

Is Ratchet a morning sex kind of person? He really should have asked Drift about these finer details before crawling into his berth. 

“It, uh. It smells like you,” Rodimus says lamely, but there is a level of truth to his excuse. The pillow does carry the same musk that he now associates with Ratchet, and he can’t say that he’s averse to it. “I get lonely when you come home late,” he adds, because he wouldn’t put it past Drift to do something as ridiculously sentimental as find comfort in his conjunx’s scent in Ratchet’s absence. 

“I’m sorry,” Ratchet murmurs, and he places an apologetic kiss to the crook of Rodimus’ neck that sends a burst of electrical potential straight to Rodimus’ core. “Things have been hectic at the medbay since we picked up our newest additions.”

The so-called Scavengers, of course. Not to mention the newly-returned Megatron. Rodimus chooses not to think deeply on what sort of medical issues the lot of them could be burdening the medical staff with, but from Ratchet’s tone it likely isn’t pretty.

“It’s fine,” Rodimus says. His focus is on Ratchet’s touch, and how the rhythmic motion of his fingers could very well ease him back to sleep. He finds himself envying Drift for getting to indulge in this luxury whenever he wants. “You’re busy. Don’t worry about me.”

Ratchet’s ministrations pause, and Rodimus is quick to mourn their absence. “Is there a reason why I should be worried?”

“Uh.” Rodimus rubs his nose. He’s thankful to be turned away from Ratchet in that moment as he struggles far more than he ever has in the art of persuasion. He chooses to blame it on the rather compromising position he’s in. “No. I’m just worried about _you_, that’s all. That you’re overworking yourself.”

“Drift.”

That quiet, almost reverent utterance of his - well, not his - designation is the only warning Rodimus is given before he’s gently coaxed onto his back in a fluid motion, and he suddenly finds himself chest to chest with a dangerously amorous Ratchet.

“Let me make it up to you,” Ratchet says, and the provocative way his panel brushes against Rodimus’ insinuates enough for Rodimus to know that now would be the perfect time to make a dignified exit.

But Drift’s body - because of course it’s the culprit, since thinking otherwise would imply that Rodimus himself is culpable - feels right at home beneath the weight of Ratchet’s heated gaze. Rodimus can do nothing more in that moment than fist the sheets and respond to Ratchet’s proposal with a choked, “Like what?”

Ratchet chuckles. “I’ve got a few ideas. Just relax, Drift. Let me take care of you.”

He begins trailing kisses down Rodimus’ chest and abdomen, each longer than the previous as if Ratchet is determined to savor the moment - or be a tease, and Rodimus wouldn’t be surprised if Ratchet has a sadistic streak in him. 

Ratchet’s breath is followed by a swipe of his tongue on Rodimus’ panel, and it’s enough to finally trigger Rodimus out of his stupor and into action.

“Inventory reports!” Rodimus blurts out as he manages to extricate himself from Ratchet’s grip and practically somersault over to the door. “I’m supposed to do inventory reports! Magnus will eat me out if I don’t get them done on time.”

Ratchet’s brow furrows. “He’ll _what?”_

“Chew me out,” Rodimus amends, and he’ll admit that it doesn’t sound nearly as pleasant as what Ratchet had just been prepared to do for him. “He’ll chew me out if I’m late so I gotta run.”

Rodimus doesn’t provide the opportunity for a response. He bolts out the door, attempting to ignore the heat that’s settled stubbornly between his thighs and leaving a befuddled Ratchet in his wake.


	4. Chapter 4

Brainstorm doesn’t realize he fell asleep at his workstation until he’s given a rather pleasant awakening, courtesy of Perceptor. 

A cube with his morning rations is waiting for him. The seasoning of copper and aluminum flakes entices him into wakefulness, and as he stretches to work out any pinched wires he notices the blanket that has been draped across his shoulders. 

The culprit isn’t far off. Perceptor is seated next to Brainstorm, observing him with a gentle yet reproachful eye.

“You were at it all night again,” Perceptor remarks, his brow furrowed with obvious disapproval. “I wish you wouldn’t neglect yourself for the sake of your work.”

Brainstorm offers him a reassuring smile. It feels like a privilege to do so, now that he finally has a space where his faceplate is more of a hindrance than a safety net against the probing stares of his peers. Perceptor had never quite mastered the art of reading the emotional intricacies that came with subtle wing movements, and Brainstorm is happy to share a common language of eyes and lips.

“You know what they say.” Brainstorm gives his neck and shoulders a good roll. There’s a series of clicks as mechanisms shift back into their proper alignment after a night spent hunched over a desk. “Science never sleeps.”

“That doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t, either,” Perceptor admonishes. “I would like to think that after everything we’ve endured, we’ve earned the luxury of time. You should take advantage of it.”

Perceptor peers down at Brainstorm’s notes. His optical augment emits a quiet whir as it adjusts its position to try and parse through Brainstorm’s scribbles.

“What exactly is this project, anyways? Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to lend you a hand?”

Brainstorm scrambles to cover up his diagrams and annotations with his body. It’s an action that screams ‘guilty,’ but he makes a valiant attempt to play it off smoothly.

“It’s a surprise,” he says. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

“I see,” Perceptor says with a healthy amount of skepticism. Fortunately for Brainstorm, though, he decides not to press the issue. “Speaking of surprises, I have something for you.”

He rummages in his subspace before producing what looks to be a model ship. Upon closer examination, Brainstorm can make out tiny cannons and a cockpit that look to have been fashioned in the same style as his own, making the ship a nice replica of his altmode.

“Now we’re simpatico,” Perceptor says with a coy smile, placing the microscope that Brainstorm had made for him next to the tiny jet. 

Another advantage to not wearing his mask is that it gives Brainstorm the freedom to thank Perceptor with a kiss on the cheek. It’s a rather chaste gesture, but it still has Perceptor’s face running warm in a way that’s unfairly endearing. 

“Where did you find something like this, anyways?” Brainstorm asks.

“There’s an unused room that’s full of models like this,” Perceptor says. “It’s incredible. Some of them are collectors items based on vessels that haven’t functioned in millennia. “It wasn’t difficult to find all the parts I needed to put this together.”

Brainstorm runs a finger along the edge of his twin’s aileron. “Odd.”

**______________________________**

Drift is already in Rodimus’ office when Rodimus arrives. He considers making a comment about how the punctuality is out of character and would only raise suspicion - or, god forbid, grant him the approval of Ultra Magnus - but refrains from doing so. 

There’s a vacancy to Drift’s expression that gives Rodimus pause. He settles for waving his hand in front of where Drift is staring at some indiscernible point on the wall.

“I’ve been having a weird day,” he says. No response. “And yeah, I know it just started, but this morning was _really_ weird.”

It would be less unsettling if Rodimus weren’t looking at himself in this trance-like state. He begins to feel uncomfortably warm as he stands there, Drift’s plating suddenly feeling too tight against his protoform.

“Hey, Drift? You good?”

Drift blinks. It’s the first sign of life from him before he finally acknowledges Rodimus’ presence. “You’re sleeping with Thunderclash.”

It’s a simple statement, without any judgment or other embellishments that Rodimus might have expected from anyone else. Without any outright scorn it’s difficult to tell what Drift’s feelings on the matter truly are, but Rodimus can make the assumption that regardless of whether his sexual exploits will be met with disapproval or acceptance, Drift doesn’t care to be in the middle of it all.

“Oh shit…” Rodimus rubs his forehead with the heel of his palm. Try again, Roddy. “Sorry. I didn’t think he’d actually, y’know… I mean, I didn’t think he took it all that seriously, or I would have given you the heads up. He didn’t try to hit on you, did he? I mean, it’s _Thunderclash,_ so he’d probably try to like. Hold your hand and whisper sweet nothings in your ear.”

“Let’s just say he has a very Thunderclash way of asking for sex,” Drift says. He finally moves, snapping out of his daze to hand Rodimus what had once been an eloquent request for Rodimus’ companionship betwixt Thunderclash’s sheets, or something equally archaic.

The napkin is crumpled and torn from Drift’s handling of it - likely an accurate depiction of Drift’s mental state at having been called upon in such a manner - but Rodimus can still make out Thunderclash’s obnoxiously flawless penmanship. 

“Huh,” Rodimus says. He hopes his expression doesn’t betray the fact that, despite everything, there is an endearing quality to the way that Thunderclash speaks to him. 

Thunderclash has a coquettish way of going about this that feels more like a courtship than a hookup. Rodimus isn’t sure if he should be flattered by the attempt or appalled at himself for harboring something other than a petulant distaste for stupid, sexy Thunderclash. 

“So what did you do about it?” Rodimus asks, casually tucking the note away. 

“Had a little too much engex to start,” Drift says. He squints as he faces Rodimus, surely nursing a hangover that the bright lights and garish pink paint are doing nothing to remedy. “First Aid was an enabler, in my defense. Did you know that? That he could drink half the crewmembers on this ship under the table?”

Rodimus hoists himself up onto the desk. He feels lightheaded from that alone, but as per usual he chooses to ignore such concerns until they assert themselves. 

“I’d believe it,” Rodimus says. “I’d believe pretty much anything about First Aid. And seriously, after everything he’s been through? I’d say he’s earned a drink. Or ten.”

“We’ll go with ten,” Drift says, leaving Rodimus to wonder what exactly had transpired in the bar last night and how bad First Aid’s tab was in the wake of it. “But I wrote Thunderclash back saying you - I? I wasn’t feeling well, and that I’d get back to him. I’ll leave the rest for you to figure out.”

“Wrote him,” Rodimus echoes. “You mean like a comm? You sent him a comm?”

Drift frowns. “No, I wrote him an actual note, like the one that he gave me. Is that - is this not something that you two do with each other?”

“Great.” Rodimus groans. His grip on the edge of the desk tightens as his balance suddenly starts to falter, and his gyros strain under the simple task of keeping him upright and alert. “He’s gonna think I’m into that sort of thing now.”

“I don’t know the intricacies of your relationship with Thunderclash,” Drift says, exasperated, yet he still manages to project an image of being collected better than Rodimus ever could with those same features. “And it’s really not any of my business. So I’d rather not touch this - whatever this is that you’ve got going on with him. That’s for you to deal with, not me.”

“Yeah, I know,” Rodimus sighs. His legs go still, stopping their carefree swinging as he grapples with how best to navigate this uncharted territory he now finds himself in, as well as the persistent milieu that only seems to be steadily building. “But speaking of which, Ratchet? I mean, I’d always heard the rumors about him being a bit of a, a uh.” He fumbles for words that would be appropriate to use around the conjunx of the subject in question. “Like a, a ‘promiscuous fellow.’”

Drift levels him with a stare. “What.”

“Those were Magnus’ words, not mine,” Rodimus says. “Obviously. But I didn’t really think he had that sort of thing in him anymore, you know? Figured you did most of the work.”

“Wait.” Color rises to Drift’s face, matching the vibrancy of Rodimus’ paint job. “Did he make a move on you?”

Rodimus snorts. “Uh, sure, guess that’s one way of putting it. He wanted to, you know…”

He raises two fingers to his mouth in the shape of a V. Drift’s cheeks flush a shade of blue that makes him look the part of a blushing virgin, not the regular recipient of what is implied in that gesture. 

“Oh god…” Drift buries his face in his hands. He looks like a pious man experiencing a crisis of faith. “I’m sorry, Rodimus. I didn’t - I mean, he can be a little, um, proactive sometimes.”

It’s Rodimus’ turn to blush. He directs his gaze towards the wall and tries to ignore the way the warmth that has been plaguing him seems to amplify between his thighs. Stupid Ratchet. Stupid Drift’s frame and whatever urges had apparently been hardwired into it. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Rodimus says. His voice comes out a higher pitch than Drift’s usual timbre. He clears his intake and tries again. “I’ll just tell him to keep it behind his panel. Because you’re doing some, uh.” He scratches his nose. “Spectralist ritual?”

Drift’s despair intensifies.

“Yeah, yeah that’ll work,” Rodimus says, unfazed. “I’ll just tell him sex throws off your chakras, or whatever. Gets ‘em all out of alignment. And you know how he is. Nothing kills the mood for him more than religion.”

Rodimus crosses and uncrosses his legs. He suddenly finds himself mourning the loss of a night that he could have spent in Thunderclash’s berth.

Drift looks up and raises a brow at Rodimus’ fidgeting. “Are you ok?”

Something blinks in the corner of Rodimus’ HUD. He figures it’s a message from Primus telling him to stop being horny. “Fine, I’m just. It’s _weird,_ being in your body with your conjunx getting, like, frisky. Your body was all hot and bothered by it.”

“Huh,” is all Drift says at first. He glances down, looking contemplative after Rodimus’ ineloquent recount of an awkwardly intimate moment. 

“Wait. What you said before.” Drift regards Rodimus with a deceptively innocent look, considering the question that follows. “Rodimus, you’ve - have you thought about me and Ratchet like that before?”

Rodimus makes a strangled noise. “Wha, dude, what? Whoa, whoa, hold up. That’s a loaded - you’re asking me a loaded question.”

The warning returns, far more insistent this time. Rodimus doesn’t have time to properly react to it before he feels his frame go stiff. His optical feed crackles with static before it suddenly goes black, and shortly after he loses all sense of equilibrium.

He goes down, apparently abandoned by the intricate network of signals and machinery that normally works to keep him upright and functioning. The thunk of his head against the ground is accentuated by the sound of Drift crying out his name. 

**______________________________**

Drift doesn’t know if it’s the panic, the adrenaline, or the natural gift for speed that Rodimus was blessed with in the the forging of his frame, but he manages to get to the medbay at a speed that would impress even Blurr. 

He’s carrying Rodimus bridal-style in his arms, with his passenger just cognizant enough to keep two arms loosely draped around his neck for extra support. To an uninformed observer, their mad dash through the halls of the ship might look like an elopement, or the prelude to something naughty between a couple of young and carefree lovers. 

“It’s nothing,” Rodimus keeps insisting, but considering the circumstances it isn’t a risk that Drift is willing to take.

The medbay is relatively quiet when they arrive. The doors whisk open and a pleasant chime can be heard, alerting any personnel in the adjacent on-call room or office that there’s a visitor. First Aid is already in the treatment room, running some diagnostics on Tailgate on one of the examination tables. Their chatter is interrupted when Tailgate lets out a gasp at the sight of Rodimus - or Drift, as far as Tailgate knows - cradled in the arms of his best friend.

“What happened?” Tailgate asks. He looks about ready to jump off the table and try to lend some sort of assistance despite the various cables plugged into his frame, but First Aid keeps him put with nothing more than a cautionary look.

“I just got a little lightheaded,” Rodimus says. “I’m telling you, he’s making a big deal over nothing.”

Drift notes that Rodimus doesn’t stop relying on him for support, despite Rodimus’ complaints. 

First Aid leaves the medicbot to supervise the rest of Tailgate’s scans as he preps a second exam table. He ushers the pair over so that ‘Drift’ can be laid down and is quick to assert himself, brushing the actual Drift aside with diagnostic tools at the ready.

“Rodimus isn’t someone to overreact when it comes to medical emergencies,” First Aid says. Unbeknownst to him he directs his chastisement at the actual Rodimus, who looks up at him with a petulant glower. “If he brought you here then I’m assuming it’s for a good reason. So quit whining and tell me what happened.”

“He collapsed,” Drift says, earning himself a look of betrayal from Rodimus. “He went down and was out for about thirty seconds. I thought he might have gone into stasis.”

“Ten seconds!” Rodimus objects. “It was more like ten seconds. Probably. Fifteen, if you’re being generous.”

“Because you would know,” First Aid deadpans, to which Rodimus has no retort. “If you’re going to be this way then you’ll need a babysitter. Ratchet!”

Drift pales. “Wait-”

It’s too late. The office doors part, making way for the unstoppable force of nature that is Ratchet in the medbay. He may no longer be the Chief Medical Officer in name but he still carries himself with the authority that comes with the title. It never fails to astound Drift how Ratchet can make such a transformation between his work and their home life, and even then Drift knows he must be watching Ratchet stride into the treatment room with doe-eyed awe.

First Aid must be rolling his optics at the sight, but he keeps any commentary on Rodimus’ sudden fascination with the cantankerous old doctor to himself.

The gravitas in Ratchet’s movements, something that he’s cultivated over eons of being the Autobots’ most respected medical practitioner, gives way to a startling vulnerability as soon as he registers who is recumbent on the exam table. 

“What happened?” he demands, making his way to Rodimus’ side. He takes Rodimus’ hand in his own, and in that moment he embodies the role of a dutiful conjunx, left at the mercy of First Aid and whatever prognosis might come their way. 

“He fainted, according to Rodimus,” First Aid explains. He finishes his optical examination and pulls out a scanner to take some vital readings. “Hm. It doesn’t appear to be neurological, but I wouldn’t rule that out as a possibility just yet.”

“I don’t have brain damage!” Rodimus snaps. “Primus, you’re all making this out to be way bigger than it is. I probably just - I dunno, maybe my gyros didn’t calibrate right after recharge, or something. It happens.”

If Ratchet is taken aback by the outburst, he doesn’t let it show. “Your health is not something I’m ever going to gamble with, period.” He gives Rodimus’ hand a squeeze that’s as firm as the resolve in those words. “We were at a euthanasia clinic, of all places. Who knows what you could have picked up there.”

“Your ventilation systems seem to be functioning properly, but your core temperature is still slightly elevated,” First Aid remarks. His tone gives away little, and Drift isn’t sure whether the ambiguity aggravates or alleviates his growing anxiety. “And- oh. Well. You’re under-fueled, for one thing. Not too far from the level of a forced stasis. No wonder your systems are trying to conserve power. Drift, did you really not notice that your reserves had dipped this low?”

First Aid turns the scanner around, showing them the reading of ‘14%’ that’s displayed in a bold red font. It reads more like an accusation than an impartial piece of data.

“We fuel together every morning,” Ratchet says. “But he ran off on his own before we could.” His expression turns calculating then, in that way Drift knows it does whenever Ratchet is confronted with a patient that he suspects is lying or only feeding him half-truths. “You weren’t at the mess hall last night either. And you missed that morning to go help out Brainstorm with one of his projects.”

Drift feels as if he’s the one being grilled, despite the fact that both medics’ disapproval is directed towards Rodimus. “So that’s all it is, then?” he gingerly asks. “Nothing a little fuel won’t fix?”

“’That’s all,’” Ratchet repeats scornfully. “I don’t want to hear it. Not everyone is as fuel efficient as you, and what you younger builds can never get through your thick skulls is that deprivation can have long-lasting consequences-”

“Ok!” Rodimus interjects, cutting off Ratchet’s rant before it can really get going and steamroll over his undeserving conjunx. “Ok, he gets it. We get it. It was my mistake, anyways. Won’t happen again. Me and uh, and Rodimus can go hit the dispensary right now and it’ll be fine.”

He tries to sit up, but Ratchet is equipped with a lifetime’s worth of experience dealing with uncooperative patients and is quick to hold him down. Ratchet does so with a tenderness in his touch, but his no-nonsense stare is enough to deter Rodimus from trying to test the limits of it. 

“You can’t fuel too quickly or you’ll risk purging,” Ratchet says. “You need a steady infusion into your fuel lines until your reserves stabilize.”

“No back-seat doctoring,” First Aid says, sliding his small frame between them. “With all due respect Ratchet, you’re here for emotional support and that’s it. And if you can’t behave then I _will_ throw you out of my medbay.”

Ratchet scoffs. “You can’t be serious.”

“Is that an invitation?” First Aid challenges. His lithe frame is about half the size of Ratchet’s bulkier one, but in that confrontation he could pass for having the imposing stature of a combiner. “I’ll take care of the treatments. You be a loving conjunx. Are we clear?”

Ratchet glances down at who he assumes to be his partner, likely looking for someone to take his side; but he won’t find it in Rodimus, who simply shakes his head with no desire to risk incurring the wrath of First Aid. 

“Yes,” Ratchet concedes, begrudgingly.

“Good.” First Aid’s posture sinks slightly as the perceived threat to his authority is taken care of. “We’ll keep you overnight on a drip. I’ll run a deep scan of your systems too just to make sure you don’t have a virus as well. Ratchet’s right about Mederi. You never know what sort of pathogens were lingering there.”

He turns to finally acknowledge Drift once more, only to shoo him away. “Thank you for bringing him but you can get back to your duties now. Ratchet can keep you informed of any changes.”

Drift gets a pleading look from Rodimus, but he’s just as reluctant to pick a fight with their newest CMO. “Alright. Rest up, Drift.”  
Rodimus looks as if he’s been thrown to the wolves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn First Aid does you back hurt from carrying all of the intellectual weight in this story.


	5. Chapter 5

The door closes behind Drift, and Radius feels as if he’s been sentenced to death.

He knows he must be wearing a petulant expression. Ratchet is quick to comment on it.

“You’re pouting,” he says. It almost comes out as a question, and Rodimus quickly tries to cover his tracks by mimicking the emotive discipline that he’s witnessed from Drift.

“I’m not,” Rodimus insists, which is damning in itself. “This just isn’t exactly how I wanted to spend my day.”

Ratchet settles back into the seat that he’d brought over, once First Aid had laid down the law and condemned ‘Drift’ to a night of bedrest. It creaks and groans in protest, much like Ratchet’s own mechanisms are inclined to do. Rodimus is curious if it bothers Drift or if he’s simply learned to tune it out because love, or whatever.

“It’s not so bad,” Ratchet says gently. His hand insistently remains curled around Rodimus’. “At least now we can make up for some lost time.”

He smiles, as if any excuse to spend time with his conjunx is a blessing. Rodimus’ tank feels like it’s trying to contort itself.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so busy lately,” Ratchet murmurs. He rubs circles against Rodimus’ palm, and Rodimus wonders if they might have some meaning in the language of hand. “Maybe First Aid makes…” He clears his intake, as if the words are something repugnant. “He might have a point. About me, needing to let him step up and take more responsibility.”

“I’m always right,” First Aid says brusquely. He rolls over an IV pump and begins fiddling with the bag and line. “The fact of the matter is, you won’t always be around. You need someone to be ready to take over for you, and I’ll only be prepared to do so if you let me get my hands dirty.”

Rodimus is suddenly reminded of a conversation he’d had with Drift long ago, when his relationship with Ratchet had a lot more tenuous. Guilt begins to percolate in his chest as he recalls an offhand remark he’d made about Ratchet already having one foot in the grave, and he feels an overwhelming urge to pull his hand away from the one that seeks to provide nothing but comfort.

“Well he’s still here,” Rodimus says, opting instead to avert his gaze and focus on the wall. He catches Tailgate out of the corner of his eye, quietly observing the scene. “And yeah, you make a point, but come on, First Aid. You can’t just kick Ratchet out to the curb and not let him help out at least.”

First Aid considers Rodimus for a moment. There’s something almost eerie about the way his optics are shielded by his visor as he does so, and his mask ensures that his mouth similarly betrays nothing he’s thinking. 

He pauses in his setup of the fuel drip, just long enough to produce a syringe and promptly prick Rodimus with it.

Rodimus can’t help but flinch, but First Aid works impeccably fast to take a small sample of his energon.

“Uh, ow,” Rodimus says, rubbing the mesh just above the line that First Aid had taken from.

“Might as well run a test on that as well,” First Aid says. He signals for the medicbot to come over and hands the syringe off. “System scans are thorough but there’s always a chance they’ll miss something. I want to know if your nanites have responded to anything as well.”

The medicbot scurries on over to the lab equipment in the corner to run the analysis. Rodimus barely has time to consider the possible implications before First Aid is inserting the IV with that same efficiency as before.

“Any particular reason why?” Ratchet asks. He almost sounds humbled after witnessing the finesse with which First Aid carried out his duties, but in this power struggle between them the question might still be taken as a challenge.

First Aid must have a little more sympathy for Ratchet in the part of the concerned conjunx. “Just covering all my bases, that’s all. I’d rather be paranoid than sorry. I’m sure you can understand.”

Ratchet nods solemnly. Rodimus wishes he’d just fueled that morning after the oral sex incident.

**______________________________**

“Back for more, eh?” 

Swerve greets Drift with a cheeky grin from his position behind the counter. His hands are busy polishing up some glasses, and naturally his mouth can never be idle either. 

“I gotta hand it to you, Rodimus, I’m impressed. I’ve yet to see anyone hold their own alongside First Aid and live to not only tell the tale, but to go for round two. I applaud you and your filtration systems.”

Drift glances around the bar. It’s far quieter than it had been the previous night, when it had been easy to lose his inhibitions in a room packed full of bodies that were moving to the hypnotic rhythm of the beat blaring from the stereo system.

Not exactly the distraction he’d been hoping for. Drift quietly begrudges his crewmates for not also seeking solace in alcohol. He’s prepared to turn and leave, but Swerve gestures to the empty stool opposite him.

“You look like you’ve got something on your mind,” Swerve says, surprisingly astute in his observation. “C’mon, keep me company for a bit. I’ll give you a free drink, even. Totally not a bribe.” 

Drift eyes the drink that Swerve promptly pours for him with a degree of caution. 

“I could use the company,” Swerve sheepishly admits, and though Drift has turned down Swerve’s attempts at companionship before, doing so now would just feel cruel. 

He doesn’t know what transpired while he was away, beyond the occasional worried glance thrown the bartender’s way by Nautica, or bits and pieces of conversation between Nightbeat and - Skids? No, it wouldn’t have been Skids - that hadn’t been meant for prying eyes.

In Drift’s defense, people tend not to notice him. It’s a quality that had served him well in the Dead End.

“You’ve done a nice job of fixing this place back up,” Drift comments as he accepts the offered seat. He shifts around for a second, trying to get comfortable. Has Rodimus’ aft always been this small? “I’m sorry about Ten, though.” 

Swerve shrugs, but there’s a telltale quiver to his lip that betrays his feelings on the matter. “It is what it is. Things are probably better this way.”

A space has been cleared on the shelf above the canisters that carry a multitude of colors and flavors of engex. Glassware has been pushed aside to make room for what looks to be a diorama depicting life on the Lost Light. 

The craftsmanship is familiar, but these figures appear to have been put together with a more practiced hand than the one that Drift has tucked away in his room. He smiles as he recalls the sight of his replica sitting on the dashboard of the shuttle, and Ratchet’s flustered response to him noticing it.

“I think he would be honored by this,” Drift says.

He raises his glass in tribute to the memorial of sorts. After a moment Swerve does the same, taking the glass he was polishing and letting it clink against Drift’s.

“Here’s to you, buddy. Hope the Afterspark is lit.”

Drift raises a brow but refrains from asking, attributing his lack of knowledge of such terminology to his age and - Primus, has Rodimus’ aft always been this much of a non-entity? Drift had felt it in his hands and lap enough times that he’d assumed he knew it even better than Ratchet’s, but he supposes that being in it is rather different from -

“Whoa, hey,” Swerve interjects that train of thought. “You’re lookin’ kinda weird there, Rodimus. Everything good?”

Drift doesn’t want to think about the sort of face he was making as he deeply contemplated Rodimus’ lack of endowment. “Fine, just. Thinking. About…” What was a ‘Rodimus’ thing to say in this sort of situation? “Stuff.”

“Right,” Swerve says. “The stuff and the things.”

“Yeah,” Drift mutters into the rim of drink.

“Well.” Swerve gives the glass a last swipe with a cloth and examines handiwork before putting it away with the rest. “I’ve done my fair share of time thinking about stuff too. As I’m sure you know. So if you ever need to…y’know.”

He looks down at the counter. It’s the first time Drift has seen someone so animated and quick to fill any sort of silence with chatter act so bashful. 

“If you ever need to talk to someone, I’m here,” Swerve says. “I know we’re not besties, or anything, like you and Drift, but. Yeah.”

Swerve ducks down to rummage in some cabinets beneath the counter. Drift figures that emotional vulnerability must not come easy for him, either.

“I appreciate that, Swerve,” Drift says, making a mental note to pass on that sentiment to the intended recipient. “And the same to you. Me, Drift, anyone you need to talk to. We could all do a bit of a better job of looking out for each other.”

**______________________________**

“You really don’t have to stay,” Rodimus says, acutely aware of the way Ratchet’s hand is still gripping his own and accepting that, despite his best efforts, he won’t be able to ignore it. “This whole thing is dumb, when you think about it. We’ll laugh about it tomorrow. I’m fine, um…” 

Rodimus fumbles for an appropriate epithet. Is Drift someone who likes pet names? That seems like the sort of thing he’d be into, at least in the privacy of his quarters, right? Rodimus attempts to nip in the bud any further thoughts about what else Drift would say or do in such situations as he takes a shot in the dark.

“Sweet…spark.”

Yikes. Rodimus prays that whatever First Aid is pumping into his system will deliver a much needed mercy kill. 

Ratchet doesn’t respond right away. Elsewhere in the medbay First Aid fails to stifle an agonized noise while Tailgate lets out an “awww” at the display of affection. 

Rodimus figures he’s hit rock bottom and tries to brace himself for the fallout, but nothing could have mentally prepared him for the sight of a blushing Ratchet.

Good god. It’s bad enough that Drift’s body is making him attracted to Ratchet, now he’s endeared by him? At this rate he’ll probably combust if they spend another night together, and lighting up is only an acceptable quirk in his own frame.

“I’ve missed spending time with you,” Ratchet says. He’s regained his composure, save for a slight tint to his cheeks, but there’s still an unmistakable tenderness to his gaze and voice alike that has Rodimus feeling strutless on the table. “And I want to do this right, Drift. As your conjunx. Let me make good on those promises we made each other.”

The details of Drift and Ratchet’s bonding are not something that Rodimus is privy to, nor has he ever felt particularly compelled to know beyond a passing curiosity. The conjunx ritus is perhaps the most intimate of rituals in Cybertronian culture, and treating it like a spectacle feels like a violation of something sacred. 

But Rodimus doesn’t need the specifics to know that Ratchet is appealing to the highest power that he can as Drift’s lover, and that it’s a remarkably vulnerable display from someone who is determined to be perceived as anything but. 

“I’ve missed you, too,” Rodimus says. The invitation is accompanied by a squeeze of his hand. The gesture feels more natural than it should, given his inexperience with such affairs. 

Ratchet one ups him by bringing Rodimus’ hand to his lips and placing a chaste kiss on the ridges of knuckles. 

“Sweetspark, huh,” Ratchet muses. “That’s a new one.”

**______________________________**

It’s easy to drift off, despite everything that’s happened. 

Rodimus wonders when Ratchet’s presence - and the feeling of Ratchet’s hand on his own - had stopped being a source of inner turmoil and (admittedly sexual, but he wasn’t prepared to touch that with a ten foot pole) conflict. 

He’s reminded of that morning, when the feeling of Ratchet curled around his frame could have eased him into a deeper sleep than would have been appropriate, given that the bed and conjunx were not his own; but only if things had not taken the turn that they did.

“Dammit…”

He lets out an exasperated breath when that same warmth from before returns with a vengeance. He can still recall the sensation of Ratchet’s tongue on his panel with a tantalizing clarity. 

Ratchet who is, much to Rodimus’ relief, now asleep. He’s snoring soundly, still holding onto Rodimus like a limpet, but shows no further signs of being conscious. 

At least Rodimus can be spared the indignity of having to explain himself to the very object of his frustrations. 

“Are you ok?” Tailgate says, finding his voice for the first time since Rodimus’ attempt at being a sickeningly sweet romantic. 

Truthfully, Rodimus had forgotten Tailgate was there. The minibot had kept to himself in his own little corner of the medbay, quietly twiddling his thumbs while the machinery running diagnostics clicked and beeped.

Rodimus can’t muster up much enthusiasm for his audience. “I’m fine,” he says, torn between wishing he’d stayed asleep and not wanting to think about how easy it would have been to do exactly that.

Ratchet’s ventilations hitch for a moment, causing Rodimus’ own to stall. But they resume their steady rhythm after that slight hiccup, and Ratchet remains blissfully asleep. 

“Where’s First Aid?” Rodimus asks after taking a precautionary glance around the medbay. 

“He went to get something from the mess hall,” Tailgate says. There’s a gentle thud as he hops off the medical berth that’s rather tall for someone of his stature. “Why, is something wrong? I can have the medicbot page him, right away.”

Rodimus allows himself to sink back into the pillows that have been propping him up, feeling a sense of relief for the first time now that he no longer is under the scrutiny of either medic. “No, it’s - I’m fine, really.” 

There’s a bit of commotion as Tailgate fiddles with the tangled mass of cables that’s running from the diagnostic ports in his arms to the terminal at his bedside. He’s able to disentangle himself and the device enough to slowly wheel it along behind him, as he approaches Rodimus with what must be a wide-eyed innocence and curiosity beneath his visor. 

“Is everything ok with you?” Rodimus asks as he considers the monitor that Tailgate is lugging around. The stream of data on the screen means nothing to him, but he can only hope it doesn’t point towards a damning prognosis. 

“As far as I know,” Tailgate says, sounding chipper despite the uncertainty in his response. “First Aid’s just been keeping an eye on me, since - well, you know.”

Mederi, and what had essentially been Tailgate’s third resurrection. Rodimus has to admire his resiliency. 

“Whirl kept insisting, too.” Tailgate shrugs, as if that were a perfectly natural thing. “It’s pretty boring, sitting here and getting all these scans done. But, honestly? If it gives him and Cyclonus a little peace of mind, then I’d do this everyday.”

Drift wouldn’t have known about the events that had shaped those three into an unlikely yet inseparable trio, so Rodimus figures it isn’t out of character to respond with an incredulous, “Whirl? Really?”

Tailgate nods enthusiastically. “He’s a lot more caring than he likes to let on. I’ll tell you, it’s never easy to get him to open up about his feelings, but he’s getting better about it. A little bit each day. Me and Cyclonus are hoping he’ll finally move in with us soon.”

Rodimus remembers all too vividly the fiasco that resulted from trying to get double beds for the various couples on the ship, and doesn’t even want to consider the logistics of getting one that could accommodate three like that. 

But he also can’t deny that the prospect of those three coming home to each other every night just feels like the natural conclusion to their journey. The thought stirs something in Rodimus’ chest, and sends a tingle of electrical potential down to his fingertips where they’re reverently held in Ratchet’s grasp.

“I guess it seems kinda weird if you don't know him. We never really got to know each other either, did we?” Tailgate sounds regretful, as if he were somehow responsible for or could have foreseen the tragic chain of events that had culminated in Drift’s exile. “I wish we had. Rodimus and Ratchet talked about you sometimes. Always made me feel like I’d missed someone special.”

Rodimus is quiet. He keeps his gaze focused on the ceiling as he tries not to think about all the ways he’s known Tailgate over the course of their journey. Drift is lucky, he thinks, to have not witnessed someone with so much to live for constantly struggle beneath the threat of losing it all.

“We have time now,” Rodimus manages to say. “We have all the time in the world.”

Ratchet snores. It’s a cacophonous sound that could raise the dead, or at the very least get a giggle out of Tailgate.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things take a turn for the horny. 
> 
> Just a heads up: I’m throwing a possible dubcon warning on this chapter. Both participants are perfectly willing and consenting, but because it’s a bodyswap fic there’s the whole matter of mistaken identities.

Drift would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little ashamed of himself for going to the bar of all places when confronted with a problem. And while talking with Swerve over a pint had been surprisingly therapeutic, he walks out of there with some pent-up energy still undermining his attempt at establishing a little inner peace. 

The oil reservoir had once been one of his favorite meditation spots, and Drift figures that it’ll be free from any potential onlookers who would question why Rodimus of all people was suddenly practicing such an art. 

He finds it quiet when he arrives. Drift approaches the edge of the platform and glances down at the pool of oil. There’s the occasional ripple in an otherwise calm surface; odd, but nothing he really cares to dwell on in that moment.

Drift takes up his preferred seated position for meditation, willing himself to have the discipline to clear his mind and not focus on Rodimus’ tiny aft. Were his standards just skewed? 

“Focus, Drift,” he mutters under his breath, but he’s already getting the feeling that trying to meditate will be an uphill battle. Rodimus’ hyperactivity and aversion to discipline must have come with the frame.

He attempts to slow his ventilations and find some semblance of calm, but he’s uncomfortably aware of each and every thought from the past day that’s suddenly catching up with him, now that he’s alone. 

Rodimus had all but come out and said that he still thinks of Drift in a way that goes beyond friendship, or at least what most people would consider the appropriate bounds of one. And not just Drift, but his conjunx as well. 

It’s a lot to process, but above all Drift finds himself hardly averse to the idea of Rodimus still being infatuated with - or at the very least attracted to - him.

Drift knows he should be repulsed by how thrilled he is by this revelation, that despite the intensity of his feelings for Ratchet there’s still a lingering piece of _something_ that he and Rodimus once shared, but he’ll confess that he’s never been as good of a person as he’s strived to be. 

They’re no strangers to each other’s beds. Drift has seen Rodimus in the ecstasy of overload as many times as he’s stood by his captain in battle, has come undone beneath fingers that are as nimble as Rodimus’ tongue and words that made him believe in the power of prophecy. 

Warmth pools between Drift’s thighs. It doesn’t help that he hasn’t gotten laid in - what, a week? Primus, Ratchet has spoiled him. 

They’d shared intimacies beyond just the physical ones, vulnerabilities exchanged in those autumnal moments of Drift’s journey with the _Lost Light_ and again after his return, when things were so much more complicated and ugly but also cathartic and beautiful in their own way. 

But somewhere along the way, Drift had made a choice. It’s not one that he regrets; no, coming back to Ratchet each night never fails to evoke that same feeling of homecoming as when Ratchet had singlehandedly sought him out and brought him back from the fringes of the galaxy. 

Ratchet. Drift recalls a conversation long ago, when Rodimus had given his brutally honest opinion on the mech who would become Drift’s husband. Drift had since given up on his idealistic vision of Rodimus and Ratchet progressing past contention to the point of friendship, but maybe now…

“Got it that bad for him, huh?”

Drift likes to think of himself as someone who is attuned to his surroundings and not easily startled because of it. But Whirl had managed to slip into the oil reservoir beneath all the noise of Drift’s tumultuous inner monologue, and Drift finds himself reaching for a sword that isn’t there to combat the perceived threat. 

“You always been this trigger happy?” Whirl asks, holding up a single claw in what might have been a call for pacifism. Drift can never really tell when his words are always so provocative. “You really have been hanging around him too much. Our little happy clappy hippy dippy Drift’s got you threatening innocent bystanders.”

“What’s your game, Whirl?” Drift snaps, which he belatedly recognizes does nothing to help his case.

Whirl’s optic shapes into a gleeful crescent that belays the so-called innocence he touts. “Been extra feisty lately, huh? Y’know, maybe it’s a good thing you’re taking after Drift and doing all this spiritual hoo-hah. M’sure it’ll do wonders for your fuel pressure.”

Drift has half a mind to repeat the Crystal City incident, maybe with a little bit of Rodimus’ fire packed into it this time, but settles for balling his fist against the ground. 

Whirl always has been too much of a wild card for him - an aggravating one at that, and Drift’s sexual frustration isn’t doing his temper any favors. “I’d like to be alone right now.”

“Relax,” Whirl says, which makes Drift inclined to do anything but. “I won’t be here long. And then you can go back to getting in touch with your inner Primus, or whatever the hell it is you’re doing.”

Drift manages to hold his tongue. He wonders how Tailgate and Cyclonus deal with Whirl’s special brand of antagonism; then again, he can’t possibly fathom what changed between those three in the time he’s been gone.

Whirl produces from his subspace what appears to be an innocuous sack. He lets out a long, low whistle, and moments later the surface of the oil reservoir - tranquil until then, apart from that occasional ripple - erupts.

The beast that had nearly killed them and the rest of their crew emerges with a guttural roar. Its tentacles whip methodically through the air, as if tasting it for any trace of who or what had summoned it. 

Drift lets out an undignified sound as he scuttles back against the bulkhead, remembering all too well being caught in the vice of that creature’s grip. 

“Oi!” Whirl flags the beast down with a wave. “I brought your supper. Hope y’don’t mind a guest.”

The beast seems to calm as it recognizes Whirl standing at the edge of the pool. It glides over to him, its vocalizations changing from that of an eldritch horror to - well, Drift isn’t even sure how to describe it. It’s like a coo, but he has a difficult time reconciling that sound with the behemoth before him. 

Whirl opens up the sack and tosses out a large chunk of debris. The beast catches it in midair, easily swallowing it with its giant maw. Its tentacles do something of a…happy dance? It’s all too surreal for Drift to really process, but Whirl is completely unfazed as he feeds the creature the remainder of the scrap he brought along with him. 

“So you’re, uh.” Drift tries not to make a face as he watches those rows of serrated teeth shred chunks of metal into nothing. “You’re keeping it?”

“Her,” Whirl pointedly corrects him. His optic narrows. “And of course I am. What, you expect me to just throw her out? And after she saved us all? That’s cold, Rodimus.”

The beast chitters and sinks down so Whirl can give its - ok, her - forehead a pat. 

“I wouldn’t exactly consider not killing us saving us, but whatever you say,” Drift mutters.

He thought he did so quietly, but Whirl gives him a look that’s as indecipherable as most of Whirl’s expressions. Whirl says nothing though, and when the beast gives him a gentle prod with one of her tentacles, Whirl shows her his empty claws.

“Sorry. That’s all I got for today,” he says, and though his…pet? Adopted child? Lets out a noise that sounds like a disappointed sigh, she gives Whirl a parting caress with a tentacle before disappearing back into the depths of the oil.

“She’s here to stay,” Whirl says with finality - a bold move, considering who he thinks he’s talking to. “Not even sorry.”

Drift sighs. He takes up his meditation posture once more, knowing full well that he won’t be able to focus on the betterment of his mind, body and soul after what he just witnessed.

“Just. Keep her fed and happy so she doesn’t start eating the crew, ok?”

“I make no promises,” Whirl says with a salute. “And you keep working on that meditation. Keep your secret garden watered, or whatever. At least it’ll make Drift happy, as long as you actually stick with it this time.”

_This time?_

The fact that Rodimus had tried is as surprising as it is uplifting. 

**______________________________**

Rodimus wakes up, and before he even registers that he’d fallen asleep he’s aware of the emptiness of his bedside and the yearning that comes with it. 

The fuel drip had finished and been disconnected. An insulation blanket had been tucked around Rodimus at some point during the night, and there’s a noticeable disturbance in the folds of it where Ratchet had pillowed his head on his arms. But Ratchet himself is gone, and Rodimus’ hand fists the blanket in the absence of Ratchet’s. 

_Get a grip, Roddy,_ he admonishes himself, but he knows that trying to keep his emotions under lock and key has always been a wasted effort. He always has been prone to surrendering to the whims of his spark, and in that moment said spark longs for the touch and companionship of Ratchet, of all people.

He must have died at Mederi. Died and gone to a purgatory where he fantasizes about hand holding and the quiet companionship of god damn “voted to repeal his captaincy” _Ratchet._ It’s the only logical conclusion. 

“...doesn’t really make much sense. I’ve gone over everything and can’t figure-“

It’s only after he’s finished pouting like a lovesick new-build that he realizes he’s not truly alone. In the corner of the medbay where the lab equipment is stationed, First Aid and Ratchet are huddled together and speaking in hushed tones, presumably not to wake Rodimus up; but he also can’t help but feel like the whole thing is weirdly conspiratorial.

“...be concerned?” Ratchet asks.

First Aid sounds genuinely surprised by the question. “I think you can form your own opinion on the matter.”

There’s a creak as Ratchet shifts his weight. He looks like he’s fidgeting but trying to play it off cool - an art form that Rodimus is familiar with. 

“You’re his physician,” Ratchet says with a startling degree of humility. “I want to know what you think.”

Rodimus coughs conspicuously. Ratchet startles and turns to face him. First Aid looks to be in a trance, frozen in space and time at having been entrusted with not only his personal opinion on a case, but on Drift’s, of all things. 

“Drift!” Ratchet is quick to come to Rodimus’ side. He may be old and lacking the agility and grace of a sleeker build, but he makes it back over in record time with a few purposeful strides. “How’re you feeling? Still lightheaded at all?”

Rodimus gives his stiff neck and shoulders a good roll. “Better. But uh, what’s with all the secrecy? Kinda rude to talk about your patients behind their backs, isn’t it?”

He says that last bit in jest, but First Aid is apologetic when he finally comes back to reality.

“Sorry, Drift. I didn’t mean to alarm you. There was just something - well, something unusual on your lab work, and I wanted to consult with Ratchet on it before saying anything.”

A feeling of dread coils in the pit of Rodimus’ tank. His intake feels dry as he asks, “Unusual how? Is it bad?”

“Well...” First Aid pauses, and opts instead to show Rodimus the datapad with the lab values. 

It’s a series of numbers and letters that doesn’t hold any particular significance to him. His expression probably says as much because First Aid is quick to jump in with an explanation.

“Your coding scan came back normal,” First Aid says. “And there was only one value on your bio scan that was outside of the normal parameters. Your cyberkines are unusually high which, well, it wouldn’t be unusual to see if you had a virus or other sort of pathogen that your nanites were fighting off. But everything else came up clean.”

“Huh,” is as eloquent a response as Rodimus can give. He wonders if Drift ever talks medicine with Ratchet and if he can keep up with the conversation.

“I’ve never seen this sort of thing before,” First Aid admits, and it’s perhaps the first time Rodimus has seen him look downtrodden while in the realm of medical expertise. “It’s the only sign of infection you have. No unusual bits of coding, no compromises to your firewalls or evidence of damage to your systems, apart from the fuel deficiency.”

“I think I have,” Ratchet muses. His gaze grows distant, as if he’s trying to retrieve some long lost memory from a lifetime ago. “But not since before the war. I’d get the occasional patient who’d present like this after taking part in that awful ‘body tourism’ industry.”

He accompanies the phrase with air quotes and no shortage of disgust. Rodimus has only even been vaguely familiar with the concept - it wasn’t like Nyon was prosperous enough to support such a thing - but Ratchet seems to take personal offense to the idea.

“Their bodies would show a mild rejection to the procedure, then,” First Aid says. As usual his facial features are obscured, but Rodimus still feels as if he’s being heavily scrutinized. 

_Great. Drift’s body thinks I’m a bloody parasite, or something. Thanks, bud._

“Sooo.” Rodimus attempts to make it look casual as he sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the medical berth, and not like a desperate attempt to escape First Aid’s probing gaze. “Is it something to be worried about, or am I good to go? You said you didn’t find anything else, right?”

First Aid looks ready to protest - and given Ratchet’s newfound acquiescence to his authority, Rodimus gets the sinking feeling that he wouldn’t be able to rely on Ratchet for help talking his way out of this - but First Aid dismisses whatever he was about to say with a shake of his head.

“We’ll just have to keep an eye on it,” First Aid says. “You let me or Ratchet know the second you start to feel like something is off. And I want you back here next week regardless for a recheck, ok? And don’t even _think_ about trying to play fast and loose with your fuel levels again.”

His lecture comes complete with a finger wag that would make even Ratchet fold. First Aid may be small but he’s certainly effective at communicating his expectations, and his presence manages to be just as imposing at Ratchet’s, even with far less experience or renown attached to his name. 

“Got it,” Rodimus says. He hops off the berth and grabs Ratchet by the hand to make a hasty retreat from the medbay. “Don’t be an idiot and don’t die. Sounds easy enough. Who do you think I am, Rodimus?”

Ratchet laughs at that. Rodimus lets himself enjoy the small accomplishment until he realizes that he’s doing exactly that. 

Maybe it would be an act of mercy for Drift’s immune system to obliterate him. It would certainly be preferable to death by sticking his foot in his mouth, and the embarrassing ordeal of admitting that he’s charmed by the way Ratchet’s nose crinkles when he laughs. 

The door closes behind them, effectively saving them from any further inquiries or judgment from First Aid. 

Rodimus doesn’t realize he’s still holding onto Ratchet until they make it a ways down the corridor and Ratchet brings them to a halt.

“Hold on, Drift,” he says. He gives Rodimus’ hand a tug and pulls them to the side. The hallway is empty right then, but Ratchet is either self conscious about taking up space for personal conversations or looking for an excuse to have Rodimus backed up against a wall, and he does just that.

Rodimus’ breath hitches. He knows Ratchet would never actually restrain him, that he can make a break for it at any moment if he really wants to, but he still feels trapped in a way that’s not unpleasant. 

Ratchet’s close enough that Rodimus can hear his ventilations, can feel the air being expelled with each cycle, and it would be frighteningly easy to reach out and bring their frames flushed together.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Ratchet asks, brushing a hand across Rodimus’ forehead. “You really scared me back there.”

“I’m not going down that easily,” Rodimus insists. His derma feels warm where Ratchet’s hand was. “I’m stronger than you, old man.”

Ratchet looks taken aback at first. Shit. Of all the decidedly un-Drift-like things he’s been saying all day, that one feels extra damning. 

But Ratchet chuckles, and looks at him with a weary smile. “You’re not much younger than I am, brat. Don’t do what Rodimus does and think you’re invincible. And don’t joke about your life. I mean it.”

“Only if it’s at the expense of Rodimus?” Rodimus suggests, playful in spite of himself. 

“Damn straight,” Ratchet says, and suddenly he’s close - closer than he had been, which Rodimus didn’t think was possible until he finds himself faced with that reality. 

Ratchet’s chest presses against Rodimus’. Rodimus is vaguely aware of a hand being pressed against the wall next to his head, effectively caging him in a way that has his pulse quickening. 

He can feel Ratchet’s breath as Ratchet leans in, and he knows that he’s at the mercy of the unspoken promises in that amorous gaze.

“I love you,” Ratchet murmurs. Rodimus can feel those words reverberate through Ratchet’s chest as much as he hears them, somewhere through the pounding in his audials. “And I sure as hell am never going to lose you.”

_This isn’t meant for you,_ the morally upstanding part of Rodimus protests. _Get out now before you both do something you’ll regret._

Rodimus doesn’t move. The selfish part of him always has been rather persuasive, as much as he likes to pretend it’s not. 

Ratchet’s lips press against his. Rodimus is frozen for just a moment, not long enough to even plausibly deny that he’s been anticipating this, and then he’s reciprocating with the desperation of a touch-starved man. 

He allows himself the indulgence of cupping Ratchet’s check as their lips move together; slowly at first, but growing increasingly more feverish as Ratchet’s hand trails down from the small of Rodimus’ back to the curve of his aft. 

It feels filthier than anything Rodimus would have expected Ratchet to pull off in a public place, and it sends a surge of want straight to Rodimus’ core.

His tongue teases Ratchet’s bottom lip. Ratchet nips his own lip in response and suddenly Rodimus’ mouth is open and vulnerable to the whims of a voracious Ratchet.

It’s only when he feels Ratchet’s tongue against his - no, _Drift’s_, dammit, it’s Drift’s - that Rodimus finally wills himself to break away with a gasp of air.

“I, um...” He raises a hand to his lip. There’s a pleasant sting from when Ratchet had nipped him, and the electrical potential coursing through the air between them seems to amplify the sensation. “I gotta - I’m sorry, I gotta go. Go let Rodimus know I’m ok.”

He brushes past Ratchet. Their hands graze each other as he makes his retreat, and Ratchet’s fingers curl ever so slightly in a silent plea for him to stay.

The urge to do so is overwhelming, but not as much as the guilt over what just transpired, and the feeling that he betrayed his best friend.

**______________________________**

Rodimus finds Drift in the training room, looking the part of a brooding loner; very Drift-like, despite his best efforts to appear as amicable and as least threatening as possible. 

The scavengers are also there, engaged in a chicken fight that seems to be escalating. Rodimus briefly considers comming First Aid and telling him to brace for triage as he heads over to Drift’s corner.

“Hey,” Rodimus says. He still sounds shaken, and takes a few steadying breaths. “Hey we, uh, we need to talk.”

Drift’s posture doesn’t falter, despite Rodimus’ obvious distress. He gives the sword he’s holding a few thrusts and swipes, and it slices cleanly through the air with an elegance that Rodimus knows he could never pull off himself.

“Like, now,” Rodimus insists. He knows his face is still flushed, that his guilt is evident. The very least he can do is confess it. 

Drift pauses. He glances warily at the scavengers. The battle must have reached its climax, given that Spinister and Crankcase have been toppled over and Misfire is doing a showboating dance on Grimlock’s shoulders. 

“Here,” Drift says. He tosses a sword that Rodimus barely manages to catch. “Practice with me while we do. I think we could both blow off a little steam.”

There’s a thud behind them. Grimlock has suplexed Misfire and left with Nickel, leaving Krok to try and gather up his three incapacitated children and follow suit. 

“Sure,” Rodimus says, feeling some of the tension leave his shoulders once they have a little privacy. “Just don’t expect greatness. Been a while since you gave me one of my lessons.”

Drift rocks on the balls of his feet. “If you’re asking me to go easy on you, I won’t.”

“Fine.” Rodimus scans through whatever memory files he still has pertaining to his short-lived career as Drift’s student before adopting what he hopes is the proper stance. “I probably deserve a good asskicking, anyways.”

Drift makes the first move. He takes a step forward with a quick jab. “Do you, now?”

Rodimus manages to parry it. He chalks it up to pure luck. “I - look, I fucked up, Drift. And I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t have time to counterattack before Drift is advancing towards him once more with a series of slashes in quick succession. 

“I’m listening,” he says. The tip of his blade stops just short of Rodimus’ chest before he pulls back, mercifully granting Rodimus a chance to get a swing in himself. 

Has Drift always been this aggressive? Rodimus finds it more attractive than he probably should, and tries to focus on anything but the persistent _need_ that has only grown more demanding since his kiss with Ratchet.

“I...” He swipes, punctuating the action with a grunt. “I kissed Ratchet.”

Drift is surprisingly calm in the face of that confession. He effortlessly blocks Rodimus’ attack before sending Rodimus staggering with a blow of his own. 

“Did he make the move or did you?” Drift asks. It doesn’t sound quite like an accusation, but the intensity with which he’s wielding his sword feels like one. 

Rodimus regains his balance, but he knows he’s not disciplined enough with his stance to avoid getting thrown off like that again. 

“His,” Rodimus says. He takes a step back, bracing himself for Drift’s next onslaught. “But I kissed him back, Drift. I could have just pushed him away or told him no or whatever, but I didn’t. And I’m not - I don’t want to ruin this, _us,_ or what you guys have. It was a mistake. And I’m sorry.”

Drift doesn’t immediately attack. Rodimus wonders if this sparring session is about to turn into an act of retribution for his betrayal.

When Drift does move he does so quickly, thrusting once to disrupt Rodimus’ balance before sweeping low with his leg to knock Rodimus down on his back.

Rodimus topples over gracelessly, and when Drift straddles him he’s half-expecting that blade to be pointed at his throat.

But Drift’s words are a deadlier weapon than any sword. He leans in close, his voice sinful and rough as he speaks in Rodimus’ audial. 

“Did you like it?”

Rodimus’ fans click on. It’s embarrassingly loud, and probably negates his need to answer. But he does so anyways. “Y-Yeah.”

Drift’s lips travel down until they’re flirting with Rodimus’ neck. His breath is as warm as the air being expelled from Rodimus’ vents. “Do you like Ratchet, Rodimus?”

“N-“ Rodimus can’t bring himself to protest, especially not when Drift’s hand begins to trail lower down his frame, dangerously close to his panel. “I - I don’t know. I’m. Confused.”

Drift grins, the absolute bastard. Rodimus can hear it in his voice as he says, “It’s ok. I’m not mad.”

“You’re...” Rodimus’ spark flares in his chest and his array throbs as Drift’s fingers tease the seam between his panel and his hip - never quite touching it, just close enough to leave him amped up and frustrated. “You’re not?”

“No,” Drift says. He speaks in a low growl that seems to travel straight between Rodimus’ legs, and it’s only then that Rodimus registers that fact that he’s practically about to be fucked through the training mat by himself. The thought does nothing to dampen his charge. “Do you want him, Rodimus? You can tell me.”

“I...” Rodimus can barely form a coherent thought, let alone an actual answer as Drift buries his face in his neck. 

“Do you want him, like you want me?”

“Yes,” Rodimus says, and it takes an extraordinary amount of willpower to not pop his panel right then and there. “Fuck, I do.”

They’re so engrossed in each other that neither of them hear the door open, and they only notice the poor witness to their heated exchange once he manages to find his voice. 

“Oh! Oh my, I um - I’m sorry. I apologize.”

Rodimus freezes. Drift, basking in his victory, is painfully oblivious.

They’re not alone. Thunderclash averts his gaze at having witnessed something certainly unbecoming of command, to put it lightly. He looks as if he’d rather be anywhere but here, though he looks too stunned to do much more than stand there in silence. 

“Th-“ Rodimus has to swallow back a moan as his surging charge and mortification at having been caught fight for dominance. “Thunderclash, wait...”

Drift stops. He whispers Thunderclash’s designation, and Rodimus can practically see the gears turning in his head as he’s sucker punched back into reality. Drift looks towards the door, optics wide and vents heaving as he notes the presence of their spectator. 

“Shit,” he says.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Thunderclash says. For someone who has always been larger than life, he looks small as he fumbles to make an exit with any sort of dignity. “I apologize for interrupting.”

He’s gone as abruptly as he came. 

Rodimus closes his optics with an agonized groan. Drift, resigned, accepts that he won’t be able to afford staying out of Rodimus’ personal affairs now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the reader who I told I wouldn't be mean to Thunderclash: I'm so sorry.


End file.
